


Good Boy

by hollyesque



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Dogs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Mental Health Issues, PTSD Sherlock, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Redbeard - Freeform, Sherlock Needs A Hug, i hurt sherlock but i gave him a puppy, puppy at baker st
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 14:53:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7896949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollyesque/pseuds/hollyesque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In an ideal world where he’d maybe have had half a wit about him to hold on to, the text may have read something like: <em>It’s John; Sherlock’s condition has worsened severely and I worry I’m running out of ways to help him.</em></p><p>But this isn’t an ideal world, so it reads: <em>HELP YOUR FUCKING BROTHER YOU POSH FUCK</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Boy

He texts Mycroft. Actually fucking texts Mycroft _bloody_ Holmes because he’s reached _that_ level of desperation.

In an ideal world where he’d maybe have had half a wit about him to hold on to, the text may have read something like: _It’s John; Sherlock’s condition has worsened severely and I worry I’m running out of ways to help him._

But this isn’t an ideal world, so it reads: _HELP YOUR FUCKING BROTHER YOU POSH FUCK_

And, well. There’s a chance he could have handled that better, but Sherlock hasn’t moved from his bed since he came screeching out of a nightmare two weeks ago and for some reason this one topped all the others before it because he’s just _stopped moving_ and stares at nothing all day and John’s had to call in a favor at the clinic to put a feeding tube down his throat because it’s gotten _that bad_ , so he gives maybe a quarter of a fuck. Max.

When the ambiguous black car rolls up to the kerb beside him, he has a fleeting thought of: _Oh, fuck, what if he has him sectioned,_ and he very nearly doesn’t get in. when he does get in, it’s to see Sherlock’s brother staring him down with the gravest face John’s ever seen the man wear, and his heart leaps to his throat in fear that he’s right. He braces himself for a fight to keep Sherlock before the car has even pulled back into traffic.

Mycroft doesn’t say anything, though; merely hands John a small, crinkled photo that’s obviously seen years of wear and tear.

John doesn’t catch on at first. “What am I looking at?” he asks, staring at it. It features a small, cherub-looking boy with a shock of dark curly hair, tiny hands reaching up to pet the Irish setter sat beside him. It’s a beautiful dog and all, and the child looks at it with positive adoration, but it takes Mycroft’s put-upon sigh for John to connect the two.

“Is this—is this _Sherlock?!”_ he demands, shaking the photo a bit. He probably needn’t have sounded so shocked, it’s just…the kid looks _so happy_. John honestly can’t remember if he’s ever seen Sherlock that happy, and the thought makes his heart sick.

“ _That,”_ Mycroft says at last, “is the single thing that made Sherlock happiest in his entire life, apart from you.” He says that last bit like it’s a simple fact, not something that makes John feel like he’s swallowed a golf ball. “That dog was his absolute best friend; could pull him out of any black mood you could imagine.”

John’s well and truly reeling now. He didn’t even think Sherlock _liked_ dogs. It just didn’t seem like him at all—slobbery kisses, shedding fur, constant need for attention? It all seemed like something Sherlock would abhor, not beam at like he does in the photo John holds.

Then he thinks about that one time he and Sherlock passed a golden retriever whilst walking to a crime scene in the middle of a park and Sherlock stopped in his tracks to scratch the thing behind its ears and inquire its name and say it was a “good boy” and oh, fuck, Sherlock fucking loves dogs, doesn’t he.

“I had hoped that you would be enough to aid Sherlock in his recovery, considering this is not a temporary commitment and your lifestyle isn’t exactly the best environment for an animal,” Mycroft says with resignation, and John feels his bewilderment grow, “but given your obvious desperation I feel it is time to bring out the…ah…proverbial “big guns.””

“You don’t…” John furrows his brow, “but this dog’s died, obviously, so—?” 

“We provide him with a new one,” Mycroft supplies with the air of an extremely weary parent.

“Get him a _dog?”_ John cries, “Mycroft, I’ve got a fucking _tube_ down his throat because he’s so frightened he can’t stomach any solids and your solution is to give him a _dog?”_

“John,” Mycroft stares at him and John sees how he’s loosened his tie, how the part of his hair is a mess, how unbearably _sad_ he looks, “this is the last thing I can think of before our only option is to have him sectioned,” John inhales sharply and clenches his fist as though he can punch the idea in the face, “so if there’s any chance that Sherlock will react to this dog the way he once did to Redbeard, then I will take it.”

“I…” John blinks moisture out of his eyes, words like _Sherlock_ and _sectioned_ and _Redbeard_ bouncing about his skull. “I’ll talk with Mrs. Hudson—“

“Done,” Mycroft cuts him off, “she was more than willing to abandon her no pets policy when she heard my theory that it might do him good.”

Mrs. Hudson’s been a mess over this, though, John thinks, so it’s little wonder.

“Alright,” John nods, going through his head to see if he knows of any nearby animal shelters, “then I suppose the next time I feel I can leave him—“

“Not necessary,” Mycroft interrupts again, shifting in his seat as though what he says next might embarrass him, “we, ah, have located a dog that bears resemblance to Redbeard…he’s sitting  on the other side of the partition.”

John stares at the partition, completely thrown by this turn of events. He’d gotten into the car to discuss nightmares, therapy options, perhaps even to suggest they bring Sherlock’s _mother_ into play, but never in his life would he have conjured up the image of himself stepping onto the street with a brand new pet in tow.

“Oh,” he says stupidly, noticing that they’ve now pulled up in front of Baker St. “Oh, alright.” And then he thinks about it for a moment, and says, “Mycroft.”

“Yes?”

“…you let the dog ride shotgun?”

“ _John.”_

 “Right, yes, getting out,” and he does, then strides over to open the passenger seat to reveal a compact travel case. He leans down a bit to peer inside before he picks it up and…well, it’s a puppy. Floppy ears, tiny legs, wet nose and all. He pokes a finger through a space in the front experimentally, and it’s instantly licked.

Right then.

After he’s shaken Mycroft’s hand and stepped into the foyer, he closes the door behind him and hesitantly opens the travel case. Immediately a wet nose pokes out, sniffs about as though to assess the situation and then out comes a yipping ball of gorgeous chestnut fur.

“So,” John says conversationally, bending down to lift the puppy into his arms, “you’re to be our savior, eh?”

The dog doesn’t seem too concerned about his destiny, focusing instead on turning John’s nose into a chew toy. Leaning back a bit and instead giving him a finger to nibble on, John heaves a heavy sigh and prays that this works.

“You know you’re our last chance, right?” he tells the animal, who licks the side of his face. “Right.” He begins to ascend the stairs.

There’s an air of gloom about the flat now that John would give anything to dissipate. The whole of 221 Baker St. has turned into a sick room, all of its inhabitants (namely John and Mrs. Hudson) treading on eggshells since that traumatizing night when Sherlock burst their bubble of relative normalcy. Of course, John could kick himself now for ever thinking that that bubble would last—Sherlock had been vibrant and alive in the light of day and then gone to bed with demons John couldn’t even begin to imagine. He’d been a meltdown waiting to happen, and John had stood by and let it happen because he’d just wanted his old life back without having to acknowledge that Sherlock might be just as hurt as John was.

Well. He watched his best friend come awake shrieking in terror, retch into a bin he kept by his bedside, and then fall silent as the empty grave John once spoke to, shaking like Jell-O in an earthquake whenever John so much as came near him. He learned his fucking lesson on avoidance after that.

John and the puppy reach the landing to 221B, and even the dog falls silent, perhaps sensing that someone inside isn’t well.

John thinks that there are things Sherlock went through that the man doesn’t even know how to articulate to John, only knows how to expel his fear in sweat and vomit and screams and it’s the saddest fucking thing. He won’t look at the medical file that Mycroft dropped off before Sherlock lost it, but he knows, just _knows_ that nothing short of catastrophe could render Sherlock Holmes so helpless.

When Sherlock first came home, John punched him in the face. Not a _somebody loves you_ punch, a good, solid one—there was no more avoidance of the nose and teeth. And he shouted, too, a great deal—lots of wild gestures and flailing limbs and colorful swearing that made him glad Mrs. Hudson was away at her sister’s—so much that it took him a long time to realize that Sherlock had gone down and wasn’t getting up.

John doesn’t like to think about how Sherlock sort of just laid there, half propped up on his elbow, and stared at the blood dripping from his nose to the floor like he wasn’t quite sure how it got there. He doesn’t like to think about it because when he does he feels like a monster.

He doesn’t like to think about how Sherlock then looked from his blood to John, with that wide-eyed look that screamed _protect me, I’m frail,_ and asked, “John?” in that small, pathetic voice that John would soon learn to get used to and fuck. Shit. Fucking shit. John’s not even sure if Sherlock remembers that and if he does he’s probably already forgiven him, but thinking back to it makes John feel like he doesn’t deserve to be holding the puppy in his arms because he crushes everything that’s innocent and he’s a bad, bad, _bad_ man.

So he puts the puppy down.

It’s off like a furry cannon, making a beeline for Sherlock’s room. John’s chest feels uncomfortably tight with apprehension, thinking about what will have to happen if this yapping baby dog doesn’t solve all his problems right now.

There’s a yip, and the sound of scratching—it’s clawing its way onto his bed. John stands in the kitchen, paralyzed.

Then there’s the sound of someone sucking in a shocked gasp, rustling sheets, and:

“Wh—John?!”

And John fucking _melts._

He can’t help it—he hasn’t heard that voice in weeks and it’s just…fuck. Fuck.

His knees go a little wobbly so he sinks into the nearest chair at the kitchen table, pinching his nose with his thumb and forefinger, relief making him woozy.

“I—John I—He-hello there, yes hello, what’s— _John!”_

He’s talking to the dog. Fuck. He’s talking to the fucking dog. John could cry.

He doesn’t, though, instead grunting around the lump in his throat and rising to his feet to make his way into Sherlock’s room. Sherlock is now saying something along the lines of “Oh, i—thank you, that’s ni—thank you, oh—”and a tiny, breathless little laugh that nearly makes John have to stop again. He resolves to send Mycroft a bottle of the most expensive brandy there is and pushes the door all the way open.

Sherlock is sitting up, apparently having been startled out of his prone position, and he looks a sight. His hair is an absolute rat’s nest, his skin pale and clammy-looking, and the circles under his eyes make him look like he’s been decked several times. Those red-rimmed eyes, though, catch John’s with a look of such wide-eyed, doe like innocence that it takes John’s breath away.

He sees what Sherlock has been saying “thank you” in response to: the puppy is standing with its back paws on Sherlock’s thighs, his front braced against the detective’s frail chest, and he’s licking stripe after wet stripe all over Sherlock’s neck and face.

 _Kisses,_ John thinks. _He was thanking him for giving him doggy kisses._

He thinks maybe he might need to sit down again after all.

“John,” Sherlock greets him, voice soft and almost childlike in its bewilderment, “who…who’s this?”

“Ah,” John says casually, like he didn’t just introduce a canine to his mid-breakdown best friend, “This is…er…” he thinks back to the last thing Sherlock had been talking about before going to bed to the nightmare that’s had him like this for the past two weeks—a chemist or something? Name was something like—

“—Gladstone,” John finishes his thought out loud, “this is Gladstone. And he’s, ah,” John shifts from one foot to the other, hoping Sherlock doesn’t choose this moment to deduce the life out of him, “he’s yours, if you…if you’d like to keep him.”

Sherlock’s hands have moved seemingly unconsciously to scratch the sides of the puppy’s face. When he breaks John’s gaze to look down into that face, Gladstone licks his nose, tail wagging wildly.

“Oh,” Sherlock says softly.

John pushes gently, “Would you like to keep him?”

“I…” Sherlock looks so impossibly frail with the feeding tube taped to his face and his large hands cradling the tiny animal that John needs to physically fight the urge to gather him into his arms and never let so much as a fucking dust speck touch him again, “Yes, I’d like that,” he finishes.

“Well then,” John grins, trying hard not to beam, “he’s yours.”

There’s a long, quiet moment where they both watch Gladstone paw vigorously at the sheets as though trying to dig a hole in them, and then Sherlock’s voice comes, “Has he…has he been walked yet?”

Hope blooms warm and wild in John’s chest, and he couldn’t squash it if he tried. “You can take him out in a bit if you want,” he offers, “but only if you promise me you’ll eat something first.”

Sherlock huffs and rolls his eyes at that and for a moment he looks so undeniably _Sherlock_ that John has to flee the room because he’s about to cry the manliest fucking tears that have ever fallen.

* * *

 

It’s not perfect.

That’s alright, though. John’s even starting to think that it might be healthier this way, even though Sherlock’s shaking more often than he’s still and he’s so thin that it frightens even Sally Donovan.

(He knows this because, not two hours after she accompanied Lestrade to the flat to drop off some case files one day, she showed up at their door again with a box full of Sherlock’s favorite pastry from a shop all the way across town and a deeply furrowed brow.

“I saw a corpse this morning that looked better than you, Holmes,” she said brusquely, “Just eat it and never speak of this again.”

But Sherlock took the box and smiled timidly at her anyway, because that was his favorite treat and she knew that and she went across town to get it and she called him “Holmes” instead of “Freak.”)

At this point John’s pretty sure that Sherlock was only acting normal for those first few weeks because he’d deleted or subdued all his memories without realizing it and attempted to operate on borrowed time, so the fact that he had the grandmother of all breakdowns doesn’t alarm John as much as it did at the time.

Every now and then Sherlock will stop in the middle of something and simply sit on the floor, shaking like a leaf. John learns quickly to interpret these episodes as flashbacks, and he does his best to rub the imaginary cold out of his friend’s bones and coax him back into their flat. More and more often, though, Gladstone gets involved, jumping into Sherlock’s lap the second he exhibits signs of being distressed and licking his face as though it’s covered in peanut butter (which they’ve figured out is his favourite). John’s partly convinced that Gladstone’s a magic puppy, because every time he does this it wrenches Sherlock from wherever he’s gotten lost almost instantly. The detective will blink a few times, furrow his brow in confusion at Gladstone as though he’s forgotten that dogs exist, and then commence scratching the pup behind his ears and murmuring “good boy” to him.

So it isn’t perfect, but that’s fine. John helps Sherlock put together slides for his experiments when his hands tremble too badly, Gladstone sleeps in Sherlock’s bed and grows and grows and slobbers affection all over him whenever he has a nightmare, and the feeding tube comes out. John texts Mycroft: _Sorry I called you a posh fuck,_ and gets a reply: _No shame in calling things as they are, John,_ and then: _Good to see Gladstone is helping._

Sometimes, Sherlock will send John images of what was done to him skittering across the sheets of his bed after London has gone to sleep and he needs someone who can actually speak English (the only area where Gladstone falls short) to whisper back at him that it will all be ok. John does, though, whisper back that it will be ok, as he rubs their furry friend’s belly and allows himself to believe that he’s telling the truth.

**Author's Note:**

> This one just kind of wrote itself.
> 
> I don't know--I thought about how Sherlock used his dog to calm himself down when he was shot and then about how he probably really needs a hug after Serbia, and here we are. Puppy in Baker St.
> 
> Reviews are immensely appreciated


End file.
